Watch me as I make myself
Softly into something else
Or maybe I will pen a fire
And burn down my church and all its choir
Sense me as I paint a dream
Of all the moments sleep has seen
Perhaps you will not bear to see
The things that I have made of me
Weaving words like witch’s spell
Until all that’s left inside is hell
As I see myself lit up by word
Yet live each day ashamed, unheard
Stand near or far as in verse I choose
At break of day, which part to lose
And shatter my beauty until nothing’s left
Because being is broken and The Word is bereft
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Author:
sylviasearcher (
Offline) - Published: June 20th, 2019 06:58
- Comment from author about the poem: Not happy with the last line but it was just a quick draft.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 51
Offline)
Comments3
Do not be 'reft, for your words have expressed themselves eloquently.
Thanks once more for reading and being so kind about my words. I suppose it is the disparity between what the word can create and what happens in being which makes me bereft
the minor imperfection you draw attention to in the last stanza , pales to insignificance when set against the near flawless beauty of verses one and two..... Neville
Yeah I just did not know what to do because meaning was disturbing the beauty of the rhythm and flow of the piece
Then I kind of thought there was something poetic in that
That maybe the imperfection becomes purposeful
Maybe that was the point
I did wonder whether giving bereft it’s own line at the end could help?
Anyway thanks for reading and liking at least the first two verses
my pleasure
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